


Grace in Your Heart and Flowers in Your Hair

by Selkit



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types
Genre: Dragon Age Reverse Big Bang, Father-Daughter Relationship, Female Friendship, Female-Centric, Gen, Royalty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-05
Updated: 2013-08-05
Packaged: 2017-12-22 12:56:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/913467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Selkit/pseuds/Selkit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Glimpses at Queen Anora's life, from mundane to momentous, through the eyes of her handmaiden Erlina. Written for the 2013 Dragon Age Reverse Big Bang.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Grace in Your Heart and Flowers in Your Hair

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2013 Dragon Age Reverse Big Bang, inspired by "Woman King," an Anora-themed fanmix by lafemmedarla. The title is a lyric from one of the songs on the mix, "After The Storm" by Mumford & Sons. 
> 
> Many thanks to JessicaJones for her excellent beta work!

_Get over your hill and see what you find there  
With grace in your heart and flowers in your hair_

 

_1._

The sun burns bright and fierce on the day Erlina first arrives at the palace, its rays beating so sharp against the polished stones that she almost lifts a hand to shield her eyes from the glare. It’s unseasonably warm for a late Bloomingtide day in Denerim, the air thick and stifling like dragon’s breath, and her escorts exchange remarks on how the weather might affect the harvest. 

She pays the small talk no mind, her attention focused on the minutes and hours ahead. Her palms are damp—just a little—and she rubs them together discreetly, telling herself it’s due to the heat rather than nerves. 

The palace is grander than any building she can remember seeing, with high ceilings arched overhead and elaborate paintings on almost every wall. The guards lead her through winding hallways decorated with yellow garlands, ribbons streaming from emblems bearing wyverns colored in shades of gold, and she cranes her head to take it all in.

“Stop gawking,” one of the escorts orders, firm but not unkind. “You’ll get used to it soon enough, and you don’t want to be late on your first day, do you?”

It seems an eternity of walking, but at last they stop in front of a door standing ajar by inches. The guard raps twice, and a moment passes before a voice calls from within.

“You may enter.”

It’s a feminine voice, and young, yet not childish. The guard pushes gently at the door, and Erlina straightens as it swings open, taking care to tilt her head down at the proper angle to convey respect and clasping her hands at her waist. The motions are almost automatic, performed countless times before, but she learned long ago to err on the side of caution when meeting a new mistress for the first time. 

The chambers are plush and well-furnished, lavish without tipping into extravagance, but Erlina’s eye slides over the finery to focus on the young woman in the center of the room. She sits at a table with a book spread open in front of her, lips pursed and eyes darting over the words, and a long blonde braid drapes over one shoulder. At the whisper of the door over the carpet she rises, slim fingers slipping a bookmark between the pages before she pushes the cover closed. 

“The Lady Anora Mac Tir,” the guard announces. “Daughter of Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir and the betrothed of Prince Cailan Theirin.”

Erlina drops into a curtsey, and when she rises she sees the future queen’s eyes on her.

“Ah,” the girl says—for she is a girl, and yet somehow _more._ “You must be my lady’s maid. Father mentioned you would be arriving today. What is your name?”

“I am called Erlina, my lady,” she replies, and for the briefest of moments she sees Anora’s eyebrows lift at her accent, before the surprise disappears and leaves only cool serenity in its wake. “I was assistant to Arlessa Kendells’ maid before I was chosen to come here.”

She hears a soft _click_ as the door closes behind her, and with a start she realizes the guards have gone, dismissed by their lady— _her_ lady, now—with a simple wave of her hand. Her nerves ease a little, now that the towering humans in all their heavy chainmail and metal armor have gone, and she raises her eyes to Anora’s face. 

Though she’s never seen Prince Cailan’s betrothed in the flesh until this moment, she’s heard plenty of gossip steal through the corridors of the Arl’s estate. _Common-born_ , the whispers go, twisting and winding like hissing snakes. _Not a drop of royal blood in her._

But seeing the lady now, it’s almost hard to believe the accusations are true. Even at only sixteen years, she carries herself with an air of easy authority, lacking the awkward self-consciousness of the young noblewomen Erlina used to glimpse at the Arlessa’s parties. Anora’s gaze is direct and sharp, not harsh yet not soft or naive, and her eyes speak of a keen intelligence beyond her years. 

“Very good,” she says, and favors Erlina with a smile. “Well, I suppose you can start by helping me dress for dinner. There’s to be a special banquet tonight to celebrate my birthday, and Father’s already sent a messenger to tell me how important it is that I look my very best—just in case I didn’t already know.” She shakes her head, but her lips curve up as she speaks, and fondness colors her voice.

“Indeed,” Erlina says. “I too wish you a very happy birthday, my lady. All the decorations in the halls—the emblems and the streamers—they are in your honor, yes?”

“Oh, those.” Anora gives a small laugh, somehow polite and dismissive at the same time. “Yes, they always bring out the decorations with Gwaren heraldry whenever Father or I have a birthday. It’s a bit silly, isn’t it? I was born in Gwaren, and I have fond memories of it, but Denerim is my home now.” Her eyes grow distant, and this time the faint smile on her lips is one not of familial affection, but of anticipation. “My future is here.”

“Yes, my lady.” Erlina hesitates for a moment before she draws a breath, seized by a sudden boldness she always lacked in the Arlessa’s household—as though Anora’s poise is contagious. “And as yours is, so is mine.”

Anora looks at her again, but this time the glance is thoughtful rather than appraising.

“Good,” she says. 

It’s just one simple word, but it’s a beginning.

_2._

Erlina learns early on that her mistress is not one for idle chatter, so it almost comes as a surprise one evening when Anora’s voice breaks the comfortable silence. She stands in front of the mirror with Erlina behind her, fingers loosening the ties on her braid.

“I have questions for you, Erlina,” she says, catching the elf’s eyes in the mirror.

It takes all Erlina’s willpower not to freeze in place, her nails almost snagging on a tangle. “Yes, my lady? Is there something you need?”

“No, no.” Anora waves one hand in a small, graceful gesture. “I just think it’s about time I got to know you a little better. So, tell me about yourself. What brought you to Ferelden? What did you do before you went to work in the Arl’s household?”

Erlina pauses a moment before answering, plucking the hairbrush up off the vanity and working it through Anora’s golden locks. She can feel the weight of her lady’s eyes on her, sharp and expectant.

“There isn’t much to tell, I fear,” she says. “I was born in Orlais, as you know. My parents were servants in the household of a great lord, but I do not remember them well. They both died when I was but a small girl. I was allowed to remain as a kitchen maid, but the head cook, she was not a nice woman, especially to elves. When I heard talk of Ferelden households in need of servants, I took my first chance to leave.”

She meets Anora’s gaze in the mirror briefly before looking away, her eyes darting back to the rhythmic brushstrokes. “I am sorry I do not have a more entertaining tale to tell.”

Anora chuckles. “That’s quite all right.” She pauses a moment before adding, “I believe you.”

Something in her voice makes Erlina’s hands go still in mid-stroke, and she looks up to the mirror. “I beg your pardon, my lady?”

Anora rests her hands on the vanity’s polished surface, her nails clacking a staccato pattern against the wood. “Ever since I was a child, my father has been teaching me how to read faces, how to look for signs of deceit. It really becomes quite easy once you know what to look for.”

“I can see why such a skill would be important for a future queen.” Erlina resumes brushing, fingers working through a small snag before the bristles yank against it. “But if I may ask, what reason would I have to lie?”

Anora’s fingers cease their tapping, her mouth pulling into a serious line. “Everyone has a reason to lie about something,” she says, voice quiet. “Whether to protect themselves, or someone else, or to keep important information away from ears they don’t want to hear it.”

Silence covers the room, broken only by the brush and the steady faraway murmur of the ceaseless bustle in the palace chambers and corridors. Erlina lets her mind drift back to Orlais, remembering the heavy thud of the kitchen door slamming behind her, her unsteady fingers gathering up her meager possessions, the cheap leather boots chafing her toes as she’d trudged toward a country she’d never seen.

“I believe I understand,” she finally says. “And I hope, over time, I may prove I am trustworthy.” For a moment, she gnaws at her lower lip before she takes a long, steadying breath. “May I ask _you_ a question, my lady?”

Anora arches an eyebrow, but inclines her head. “You may.”

“Will you tell me of your childhood?” Erlina asks. “It was more exciting than mine, no doubt.”

A flicker of surprise crosses Anora’s face before she covers it with a small smile, and Erlina suddenly wonders just how rare it is for the queen-in-waiting to have a normal, everyday conversation. 

“’Exciting’ probably isn’t the right word,” Anora says. Her lips stretch in a small smile. “My marriage to Cailan was arranged when we were both hardly even old enough to know what the word ‘betrothed’ means. From that moment on, almost every pursuit I took, every lesson I was taught, was aimed at preparing me for the pressures and responsibilities of ruling.”

Her smile softens, and her eyes glide past the mirror to stare unfocused at a spot on the wall, replaying a childhood memory. “’You’ll be queen one day,’” she murmurs. “That was likely the single most common phrase I heard growing up, from my mother, my teachers, the servants, my father— _especially_ my father. Sometimes it was an admonishment, sometimes a simple reminder.”

“Such pressure on such a young girl,” Erlina says, her brows drawing together. “Was it not intimidating? Or even frightening, to be so often reminded of such responsibility?”

“Frightening?” Anora’s eyes snap back to the mirror, her reflection watching Erlina like a hawk. For a moment, she looks as though she’s about to say more, but then her expression cools and she shakes her head. “No, Erlina, I have no place in my life for fear.” 

She pivots, the light catching gold hair, setting it to gleaming like coins in the royal treasury. “And neither do you,” she says. Her voice is firm, but not unkind. “Come, stop wringing your hands. You’re no longer a kitchen maid, and I’m not some ghastly cook about to brandish a skillet at you.”

Erlina opens her mouth to apologize, but something in Anora’s expression gives her pause.

“That is a relief, my lady,” she says instead. She finds herself standing a little straighter, meeting her mistress’ eyes.

And Anora smiles.

_3._

It’s late one night—or perhaps early in the morning, the first streaks of colorless light barely visible through her window—when the harsh thud of a fist against the door makes Erlina jolt upright, covers pooling around her. In the adjacent room she hears Anora stir, and she bolts from her bed, heart pounding in her ears as she fumbles to light a candle. 

The knock comes again, heavy and insistent. “Anora? Are you awake? Open this door; I need to speak with you.” 

Even muffled through the door, the gruff voice is familiar. Erlina’s stride falters, the candle’s flame spluttering weakly in her hand. 

“Just a moment, Father!” Anora calls, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. “Erlina, fetch my dressing gown. Quickly, now.”

Any traces of fatigue are gone from her eyes by the time Erlina wraps the gown in place around her. She positions herself in front of the door, her shoulders squared and spine erect, an aura of calm control settling over her like a mantle. 

“Open the door,” she says, and Erlina moves to obey.

She’s barely released the latch before the door blows open, and she scrambles out of the way, darting to take her place behind Anora. The Teyrn of Gwaren looms in the doorway, clad in full plate armor even at this hour, and despite the dim flickering candlelight she can tell his eyes are bloodshot, the lines in his face deep and dark. 

“You,” he rasps, his gaze finding Erlina like a beacon. He jerks his head toward the door. “Get out.”

His voice is more weary than angry, but it makes her jump all the same, ducking her head as she scurries toward the room’s entrance. She still remembers the thunderous look on his face the first time he heard her accent, and how it almost tempted her to drop everything and flee back to that wretched Orlesian kitchen. 

“Erlina, wait.”

Anora’s voice is clear like a bell in contrast to her father’s growl, but no less commanding. Erlina pauses near the door, outstretched hand hovering over the handle.

“Erlina is my handmaiden, not yours,” Anora reminds her father. Her chin lifts just a fraction—enough to reinforce her words without crossing the line into petulance. “I trust her. Whatever you need to tell me, you can say in front of her.”

Erlina blinks, a wave of surprise and gratitude washing over her, and forgets to quail when Loghain narrows his eyes and makes a guttural noise deep in his throat. 

“Anora…” he says.

The note of warning rings loud and clear, but Anora merely shifts her stance, gesturing to the couches off to one side of the room. “Come, Father, you didn’t rouse me from my bed in the dead of night to have a staring contest, did you? What do you have to tell me? Erlina, some water, please.”

She hears the creak of armor as Loghain raises a hand to his face, pressing gloved fingers against his eyes. “I have neither the time nor the energy to argue with you right now,” he mutters. “I’ve just come from a meeting with the king’s advisors.”

Erlina can’t see Anora’s face, but she can imagine her eyebrows arching. “At this hour?”

“It was a long meeting.” He sighs, waving Erlina away as she returns with the water. “As you know, King Maric departed some time ago on a voyage to Wycome.”

Anora accepts the offered glass, raising it to her lips and nodding over the rim. “Go on.”

“He never reached his destination.” Loghain spits out the words like they’re laced with poison. “Even making allowance for storms or other setbacks, they should have had plenty of time to reach Wycome by now. But we’ve had no word. Heard nothing from them since they were a week into the journey.”

Anora sets her glass down and folds her hands in her lap. “Yes, I know.”

The Teyrn goes still, eyes locked on his daughter. “Do you? How?”

“I have sources.” Anora’s face stays perfectly composed, but Erlina sees her fingers tighten in her lap, creating tiny wrinkles in the delicate fabric of her dressing gown. “You didn’t raise me to be passive and naïve, simply waiting around for others to tell me when and where my future will happen.”

For just a moment, Erlina thinks she can see a flicker of pride in Loghain’s eyes, but it disappears just as quickly as he shifts forward, his mouth drawing into a tight line. “Then you know what this means for you.”

Anora gives a quick, sharp nod. “The wedding, and then—“ Her voice rises a little, her eyes gleaming, and she cuts herself off with a long breath. “But King Maric—surely there’s been a search party.”

“Of course,” Loghain says. “But they’ve been looking for weeks and found no trace of him. I intend to join them soon, but in the meantime—even if Maric does still live—the country needs a king.”

Anora raises her head, her lips curving. “Or a queen.”

“Just so.” Loghain stands, turning toward the door. “They’re going to officially declare Maric lost at sea first thing in the morning,” he says. “I would suggest you begin whatever preparations you need, but it would seem you’ve already done so.”

The couch creaks as Anora rises, following him toward the door. “Indeed. And Father...thank you for coming to tell me.”

When he’s gone, she closes the door and leans against it, letting her breath out in a long, controlled sigh. Erlina crosses the room to stand beside her, watching her in the dim light. 

“Are you all right, my lady?”

“Of course.” Anora straightens, hands smoothing over the pleats in her gown. For a moment she stares at nothing, wearing the distant expression of one deep in thought, until she catches sight of Erlina’s dubious glance. 

“Oh, Erlina, you worry too much.” She laughs, light and almost teasing. “As I said, I’m fine. It’s just that after all this time, it’s all finally happening. This is one of those moments I’ll look back on years from now, and think, _this is where it all began_.” 

Erlina smiles. “And you are not nervous, are you?”

Anora returns the smile, her eyes bright. “Nervous? Perhaps a little. It would be a poor sign if I weren’t, I think. Confidence is good, but _too_ much confidence is a weakness rather than a strength. But really, I feel a mix of emotions. Nervousness, excitement.” She pauses a moment, and a little crease forms between her brows. “Oh. And sorrow for Cailan, of course. I can only imagine how I would feel if I lost my father.” 

She meets Erlina’s eyes, and her expression turns determined. 

“Come,” she says. “Help me get dressed. I don’t think I’ll be getting any more sleep tonight, not when there’s so much to do and little time to do it. Like all other things, morning will be here before we know it.”

_4._

For once, the Ferelden climate chooses not to be its typical ornery self, and when the wedding day finally arrives it dawns with bright sunlight and peals from the Chantry’s bell tower. Flowered garlands drape the palace hallways, sending Erlina into fits of sneezing, and all the windows and floors are scrubbed so spotless that she can almost see her reflection in them as she rushes to and fro. Even louder than the bells are the excited barks echoing from the guest quarters, where all the wedding attendees’ mabari hounds try their best to undo the servants’ hours of cleaning.

In the midst of the bustle, Anora is the anchor, as unruffled as a pond on a windless summer day. At least some of her calm is a mask—Erlina’s keen eye doesn’t miss the tiny twitch in her jaw, or her hands smoothing over her hair at least three times—but as always, the queen-to-be allows little to faze her. 

“How does he look?” she asks as they stand in the holding area, waiting out the last few minutes before she’ll step down the aisle, crossing the threshold between _future queen_ and simply _queen._

Erlina pauses in her hasty rearrangement of the wedding gown long enough to peer through the curtains, her hands still overflowing with silky fabric. Prince Cailan stands at the far end of the room beside the Chantry Mother, resplendent in his gold armor, waving at the cheering crowds gathered before him. 

“He looks very handsome,” she reports. “And kingly. It must have taken many hours to polish all that armor to such a sheen.”

Anora chuckles lightly, like the echoing of the Chantry bells. “I know what he _looks_ like,” she says, slanting a smile at her handmaiden. “But what about his demeanor? Does he seem nervous?”

“Ah, no, my lady.” Erlina returns to smoothing the last wrinkles out of the gown’s skirt. “He looks…rather like a puppy? Very excited. He may even start bouncing about the room soon.”

A bark of laughter startles her, and she turns to see the Teyrn ducking through the curtains. 

“An apt description,” Loghain says. “We can only hope he refrains from taking the comparison too far and pissing himself all over the floor.” 

“Oh, Father.” Anora purses her lips, but the look of reproach is tempered with fondness.

In return she receives a rare smile, small but unmistakable. For a moment, it seems to Erlina that the Teyrn is about to say something more, but instead he swallows and looks toward the aisle. 

“It’s almost time,” he says, his voice a bit more gruff than usual. “Are you ready?”

Anora tilts her head back to look up at him. She smiles, her eyes aglow.

“Do you even need to ask?” she says. “Surely you remember that phrase you always used to say to me as I was growing up.”

“Mm.” He rumbles in assent. “’You’ll be queen one day,’ wasn’t it?”

Anora’s smile widens, and she reaches out to take his proffered hand, threading her arm through his.

“'One day’ begins now,” she murmurs. 

_5._

“Erlina.”

The call comes suddenly one morning, interrupting Erlina’s thoughts as she finishes tidying her own small quarters. In truth it’s hardly even a call—her lady’s voice isn’t raised or angry or frantic, yet something in that one word makes gooseflesh ripple on Erlina’s arms. She quickens her steps and trots through the doorway into Anora’s chambers, her heart lodging in her throat.

“My lady?”

The queen sits on one of her couches, wrapped in her dressing gown, her back to Erlina. She doesn’t look up as the elf enters. 

“Would you please…” Her voice falters halfway through the sentence, and she pauses, clearing her throat. She waves one hand toward the unmade bed in a listless gesture. “Take care of that.”

Even before she steps up to the bed, Erlina glimpses the dark red stain marring the mattress, half-hidden by the rumpled covers. She gingerly peels back the blankets and sheets, revealing a wadded-up nightgown crusted with rapidly drying blood.

“It wasn’t very mature of me, I suppose.” Anora’s voice is wooden, detached. “Throwing clothes around like a child.”

“No one could blame you, my lady,” Erlina murmurs, pushing down the lump in her throat. The blank, dead look seems out of place in Anora’s eyes, throwing Erlina off balance, and she tries to ignore the uneasy flutter rising in her chest. “I’m…very sorry.”

“Anora, the Barren Queen.” Anora’s tone changes, bitterness threading through the words, and Erlina isn’t sure if it’s better or worse than the emotionless monotone. “That’s what they’ll call me in the history books, I suppose.”

Erlina’s hands go still on the sheets, and she turns to look at the queen. Anora hasn’t moved from the couch, her hands resting limply on her stomach, dry but dull eyes staring at nothing in particular. All at once, Erlina finds herself crossing the room to sit beside her, reaching out to tentatively rest her hand on Anora’s. The queen’s fingers are cold, the nails colored with tiny crimson flecks.

“That’s not true, my lady,” she says, suddenly desperate to do something— _anything_ to chase away the emptiness in Anora’s voice. For one wretched moment she feels helpless again, regressing back to the skittish scullery maid. “You have done many great things for the country, things that will be recorded and remembered for generations to come.”

“That’s just the thing, isn’t it?” Anora turns toward her in a sudden movement, tangled hair catching on the sofa cushions. “I’ve put everything I have into this nation, ensuring its people have the best future possible, and what’s the one _bloody_ subject they want to focus on?” She spreads her hands, face contorting in a mocking grimace, as though she’s a gossip sitting at a tavern table. “’Queen Anora is infertile. Queen Anora can’t give the king an heir.’ It’s as though I’m nothing but a broodmare to them. Meanwhile, my husband could do nothing but sit in his chambers all day playing the fiddle and braiding his mistresses’ hair, and they don’t breathe a single word about him.” 

“It is so _unfair_ ,” Erlina says. The words are almost a growl, and she blinks, surprised at her sudden vehemence. She pauses, taking a deep breath to collect herself. “It takes two people to make a baby, no? And yet the king, they do not say these things about him.”

“No,” Anora replies, her voice soft. “No, they don’t.” She sighs, a rueful smile crossing her face. “It’s one of the first things we learn as women, isn’t it? Always judged more harshly, scrutinized more closely. I should think it would eventually become easier to bear, but…”

Erlina nods, lifting one hand to toy with the pointed tip of her ear. “But it doesn’t.”

“It doesn’t,” Anora echoes. A pale shaft of sunlight pierces through a crack in the curtains to fall on her face, making her squint. Tiny wrinkles gather at the corners of her eyes, and for the first time in a long while, Erlina notices how tired the queen appears, her face bare of cosmetics and the masks she wears in public all tucked away. 

“My lady,” she says quietly, “perhaps you might like to take a day just for yourself? I can send messages to the advisors and cancel your appointments if you wish.”

Anora’s mouth twists in a wistful half-smile. “I can’t deny that sounds tempting,” she says. “But no, I cannot shirk my responsibilities, even when all I want to do is curl up in a hot bath and leave the country to its own devices for a day. Politics cease for no one—and certainly not for my empty womb.”

She looks down to her lap, where Erlina’s hand still rests over hers. Her fingers move, turning up to give the elf’s hand a brief squeeze. 

“But thank you, Erlina,” she says. “Some days I don’t know what I would do without you.”

“You would rule,” Erlina says simply, “the same as you do now.”

Anora smiles. “Perhaps,” she says. She clasps Erlina’s hand again, then rises from the couch. She takes a deep breath and releases it slowly, and when she’s done the weariness is gone from her eyes, the unflappable queen returning as though she’d never left. 

_6._

“Something has happened,” Erlina mutters to herself for the third time, pacing back and forth in the queen’s chambers. “She should have returned by now. Something has gone wrong.”

She pivots on her heel, glaring at all the unfinished tasks accumulating in every corner of the room—the bath to be prepared, the queen’s laundry to be washed, the evening dress to be laid out—but none of them seem to matter when the queen herself has disappeared.

 _Oh, hush_ , Erlina scolds herself. _You’re being absurd. The queen hasn’t disappeared; she went to visit Arl Howe. They are caught up in talking politics and simply lost track of time, that is all._

She throws herself into her tasks, scrubbing at the soiled clothes with enough force to make her fingertips wrinkle and her bones ache. Yet even after each piece is rinsed and neatly pinned to the clotheslines, the queen still remains absent. 

_Something has happened. Something has gone wrong._

“But the queen has guards!” she argues with herself. Her voice rises a little too high, and she swallows, casting a nervous glance at the door.

 _That is true_ , she thinks. Her heart beats uncomfortably loud in her ears. _But guards can be bribed. I can’t be._

 _Guards can also be killed_ , a treacherous little voice whispers in the back of her mind. _And so can you._

“I know,” she says aloud. “But I cannot merely sit here and hope for the best when the queen might need me.” 

Slowly she turns toward the room’s entrance, her mouth dry as the Anderfels, and with a strange heavy feeling she realizes she’s already made up her mind. 

“Andraste guide me,” she murmurs, and strides through the door.

* * *

Gaining access to Arl Howe’s estate is easier than she expected—almost _too_ easy. A small army of elf servants roams the grounds and hallways, and none give her more than a brief, disinterested glance as she threads her way among them. 

It takes all her willpower to keep her strides slow and unhurried instead of frantic as she walks up and down the halls, pausing just long enough to glance into each room, searching for the telltale glint of light on blond plaits. The minutes drag by, and she begins to chastise herself with every step, imagining the queen back safe in her quarters wondering where in the Maker’s name her wayward handmaiden has gone—

She doesn’t even see the door until she almost stumbles on it, the pale blue glow of spellpower catching her peripheral vision. She whirls in a full circle, wide eyes searching for the mage or the guards or _someone_ , but the hall remains empty. Erlina swallows, stepping forward as close as she dares, hovering inches away from the door. 

“My lady?” she asks the door, words barely more than a whisper.

The response is instantaneous, a rustle followed by the quick patter of familiar footsteps. “Erlina? Is that you? Oh, thank the Maker. I knew you would get worried eventually.” 

The burst of relief is quick and sharp, but short-lived. Erlina puts out a hand to brace herself against the wall, carefully avoiding the magical barrier stretched across the door.

“What happened, my lady?” she hisses. The questions jostle in her throat, wanting to burst out in anxious babble, but she forces them back, biting down on her tongue as hard as she can. 

“Let’s just say my conversation with Arl Howe went poorly. Apparently he thinks he can keep me locked up in here, and I’ll sit and wait for his pronouncement like a docile little queen.” Anora’s voice rises in indignation, and Erlina can picture her lip curling. “But never mind the details right now, Erlina—we have very little time. I need you to go and get help as quickly as you can.” 

“But—he abducted you?” Erlina hears her voice going shrill, but somehow she can’t stop it. “He kidnapped the _queen_? How—“

_“Erlina.”_

It’s just one word, but something in Anora’s tone makes Erlina’s mouth snap shut, the frenzied words dying down. No longer is it the voice of a friend speaking to a friend, or even a mistress instructing a servant, but a queen commanding a subject.

“Yes, my lady,” she whispers. “What would you have me do?”

“I need you to go to Arl Eamon and his Grey Warden ally,” Anora says. “As the strongest opposition to my father, they are in the best position to provide aid, and they need my support for the coming Landsmeet. They will have no choice but to help. Do you understand?” 

Erlina’s head bobs in a quick nod, even though the queen can’t see her. “I do.” 

“Excellent. And Erlina…” Now Anora’s voice softens, back to the mistress Erlina knows so well. “I know you can do this. I have complete faith in you.” 

Erlina closes her eyes, letting out a deep breath. “I will not fail.”

“Good.” She can picture the queen’s smile, even through the door. “Now go—and hurry.”

This time Erlina does not hesitate. 

_7._

When Anora enters the room with a hitch in her step, her face and clothes splattered with blood, Erlina can almost feel her heart grind to a halt. 

“My lady!” Her voice pitches high with alarm as she leaps forward, hands fluttering, mind racing. “What happened? Are you hurt? Where—”

“Hush.” The queen’s eyes are almost glassy, not meeting Erlina’s, but her jaw is set and her voice lacks none of its usual strength. “The blood isn’t mine.”

“Then…” Erlina swallows. “Who?”

Anora still won’t look at her. Her hands clasp at her waist, almost primly, but the knuckles are white. “It’s my father’s.”

Erlina gasps, her fingers flying to her mouth. “But then…he is…”

“It was hardly unexpected,” Anora plows over her. “The Warden made it quite clear to me before the Landsmeet that her order considered my father’s deeds unforgivable. He…”

She stops, clears her throat, and starts again. “He committed terrible crimes, and he paid the price for them.”

“But, my lady,” Erlina whispers. She swallows, twisting her restless fingers together. “He was still your father.”

“Erlina, _please_.” For the first time, Erlina sees the bright sheen of tears in Anora’s eyes, but they vanish in the space of a single blink. “If I stop to grieve, I’ll lose everything I’ve ever worked for. If I fall to pieces now, I am not my father’s daughter.” 

When she turns around, her eyes are alight with steely determination. Erlina nods, an odd sense of calm stealing over her.

“I will fetch some rags,” she says quietly.

The blood has already begun to dry, rust-colored streaks clinging to Anora’s skin. Erlina grits her teeth and presses down, scrubbing hard enough to raise marks on the queen’s face, and slowly the rags turn red in her hands. 

“It is done,” she finally says. Her voice sounds strange to her ears. “The blood, it is all gone.”

“Thank you.” Anora’s voice is distant, as though Erlina had merely handed her a glass of water. “I’ll need a change of clothes as well.” 

“At once, my lady.” Erlina hurries to the wardrobe and selects a fresh garment, carefully avoiding both the black and the brightly colored gowns. “What will you do now?”

Anora slips out of the blood-streaked dress, letting it pool at her ankles. “The Warden and the nobles voiced their support for me at the Landsmeet,” she says, “but much still lies ahead of us. If we cannot stop the Blight, none of this will matter at all. We have armies and provisions and information to gather, strategies to plan, battles to fight…and even _if_ we succeed in defeating the Archdemon, Maker willing, the road to recovery will be a long and steep one.”

“The country believes in its queen,” Erlina says. “You will lead them through it. I know this.”

The queen does not smile, but her eyes are grateful. 

“It’s what he would have wanted,” she says softly. Her gaze drifts to the pile of soiled rags on the floor, lingering a moment before it continues on.

_8._

In the end, it is all over in a matter of hours. 

To Erlina it seems more like years, huddling in her darkened quarters, all too aware of the queen’s empty chambers just beyond her doorway. Outside she can hear the dim roar of battle, first rising, then falling as the conflict rages on. She closes her eyes and tries to picture the queen, clad in armor and standing triumphant over a vast pile of slain darkspawn, bloodstained sword thrust high in the air and cheering soldiers all around her.

Instead her mind betrays her, and she imagines the queen lying crumpled and motionless on the battlefield, skewered by an ogre’s claw like her dead husband—or perhaps missing a head, like her dead father—

Her stomach heaves, and she throws herself off the bed, desperate fingers scrabbling for the wastebin. She retches nothing but bile, and vaguely remembers that she hasn’t eaten in hours.

 _Be calm_ , she tells herself, trying to make her mind’s voice as fierce and fearless as the queen’s. She clasps her hands in front of her, prim and graceful, imitating the gesture Anora’s made countless times. It isn’t quite the same, but her racing heart begins to slow. _Be strong. The queen would not allow all this trouble and strife to turn her stomach, and neither should you._

She draws a deep breath and then another, holding each as long as she can and blowing them out slowly, imagining her fears leaving her with each exhale. Eventually her heartbeat no longer thuds in her ears, and, she realizes the clashing swords and soldiers’ screams have faded. She risks a glance at the window above her bed and sees a hazy red-orange glow wreathed in smoke, as though the Maker has reached down to light the city’s funeral pyre.

Still the queen does not return, yet neither do darkspawn growls echo through the palace halls. 

Gradually the firelight outside her window gives way to rosy dawn, and Erlina’s head begins to droop, her eyelids growing heavy. When armored footsteps finally approach the queen’s door, she almost misses them, the sound reaching her ears as though from a great distance.

It isn’t until the latch rattles that her eyes fly open, and she leaps from the bed, grabbing a torch off the wall and holding it before her like a club. In the back of her mind she knows it’s futile, that if it’s darkspawn prowling outside the door they’ll have her on a spit faster than she can blink, but she’ll meet her fate on her own two feet like a queen’s handmaiden should—

The door creaks open and she sees Anora standing there, still in her armor with her helmet tucked under her arm, skin bruised, hair mussed, but alive.

“Maker’s breath, Erlina,” she says, and though her face is lined with exhaustion, her eyes hold a hint of a smile. “What are you doing with that torch?”

* * *

They crown her a short time later, one moment of celebration amidst the still-settling dust. Despite the blackened hollowed-out shells of buildings scattered throughout the city, and the number of dead and missing rising every day, the people of Ferelden line the palace’s great hall in eager anticipation to glimpse their queen.

“It’s a strange feeling,” Anora murmurs as she stands near the head of the aisle, waiting for the Chantry Mother to take her place. “It’s almost as though my wedding day is repeating itself. In just a moment, I’ll walk down that aisle and become queen. Again.” She tilts her head, her eyes contemplative. “Only this time, there’s no father walking me down the aisle, no husband waiting for me at the end of it.”

Her gaze drifts to the floor, tracing the designs woven into the carpet. “I miss them both dearly, and yet…in a way, it feels as though I’m finally stepping out of their shadows.”

“It is…” Erlina pauses, searching for the right words. “Bittersweet?”

“Precisely.” Anora raises her head, her eyes distant yet determined. “But if this is my opportunity, I will not squander it.”

“Anora, the queen who defeated the Blight,” Erlina says. “The history books, that is what they will say.”

“Indeed?” The queen looks at her, her lips stretching in a grin, brief but full. “I wasn’t the one who buried her sword in the Archdemon.”

“Hmph.” Erlina returns the grin, waving a hand in a mock-dismissive gesture. “Running a country, seeing it through a Blight and a threat of civil war at the same time…that is no small feat. Anyone can stick a sword in a dragon’s head, no?”

Anora laughs, a chuckle that grows until it’s almost a giddy sound, and just for that one moment it seems as though all the burdens of recent weeks—and years—fall off her shoulders. Erlina joins in, feeling her own heart lift. 

She hadn’t realized until now just how good it is to see the queen laugh.

“Thank you, Erlina,” Anora says when the moment fades. She reaches out to rest a hand on the elf’s shoulder, her eyes bright. 

Erlina swallows, discreetly wiping at the corner of her eye, and gestures to the end of the aisle. “The people, they are ready for you.”

Anora smiles. “As I am for them.”

At the head of the great hall, the Chantry Mother raises her hand to quiet the crowd, and Anora straightens. Erlina closes her eyes, letting the atmosphere wash over her, and for just a moment it seems as though the entire country holds its breath in anticipation.

She opens her eyes when she hears the crowd erupt in approval, and watches Anora walk onto the aisle with a graceful step. The queen strides forward with shoulders straight and head held high, and she does not look back.


End file.
